The perspective was better from Center City, the innermost ring of Residential Communities, the one immediately surrounding the Zone, where the Variant-Positive manual laborers were loading their tools into the back of their work vans, prominently branded copolymer workshirts and coveralls already soaked through with sweat, and the hordes of baristas, stock clerks, checkers, packers, drivers, and healthcare aides were filing through the rows of body scanners in the metal doorways of their affordable housing, or making their way down the buckling sidewalks, their heads tilted upward to watch the light show, whispering guesses as to what it might be. Standing behind them, just off the sidewalks, safe from the sweltering morning heat inside their tubular ThermaSoak shelters, their physically perfect, immaculately groomed, serenely silent, blue-eyed children, Clarions all, observed their movements with an almost feline concentration, completely ignoring the lights in the sky ... which were obviously nothing but video static. One by one, the private school-trams glided to a stop in front of the shelters. The doors whooshed open, blasting the passing commuters with gusts of arctic air. The children boarded in an orderly fashion, single file, according to age, the younger ones turning and waving goodbye to their sweat-drenched Variant-Positive parents.
Meanwhile, in an undisclosed location, a team of three Security Specialists, outfitted in their matte black SecPro Systems lightweight, puncture-proof body armor, watched as Valentina changed into the off-white loose-fitting cotton pants and matching top they had given her to wear. She couldn’t see their eyes through their visors, which were tinted black to keep out the sun, but they didn’t appear to be terribly impressed with either her breasts or abdominal scar, which she noted appeared to be healing nicely. After she dressed, they fitted her wrist with a nylon In-Transit ID bracelet, and walked her down a long white hallway and into what looked like a service elevator, the walls of which were lined with the same material they had used in the pink padded room. They rode the elevator down to a sub-basement, walked her out, and loaded her into an unmarked black Security vehicle, a mid-size van with tinted windows and flip-down seats that were bolted to the walls. The Security Specialists climbed in with her. They strapped her in and slid the doors closed. The driver, who she could not see, drove them out of the underground garage and onto whatever street they were on ...
Wherever it was was somewhere down in the business district, where no one lived. It looked like early morning out there, an hour or so before sunrise, she guessed. Crews of sanitation technicians dressed in day-glow yellow spacesuits, some of them certainly Anti-Socials, were pressure cleaning the empty sidewalks, swinging their nozzles methodically back and forth through the mist like foraging insects. The video billboards were advertising some brand of extra-strength laxative for dogs ... or something, the van was moving too fast. They were speeding up some four-lane avenue, the mirrored façades of whose corporate towers were screening movies of other movies in which a series of flat black vans were driving past a number of glass and chromium buildings that all looked the same. The van slowed down and made a right and picked up speed and now they were on some other unknown four-lane avenue. They passed a Mister Victory restaurant, a Lucian’s Luggage, a Big-Buy Basement, another long stretch of office buildings ... the movie of the van in the mirrors resumed. She sat there, strapped into her seat, watching a series of ever smaller silently speeding flat black vans, inside of each of which she was, recede forever into infinity.
Valentina knew that something was wrong with her head ... but she didn’t know what. She knew who she was, and where she was. She was in an unmarked Security vehicle. At some point during the recent past, she’d thought she remembered remembering why she was in that unmarked Security vehicle, and where it was taking her, but now she’d forgotten. It felt like this was possibly not the most important thing she’d forgotten, but it was up there pretty high on the list. It wasn’t so much that her memory was gone as that what was there was hopelessly scrambled. Also, she guessed, it came and went, so that what she thought she remembered now, later, she wouldn’t remember at all ... by which time, of course, it wouldn’t matter.
Two of the three Security Specialists, who were all still wearing their puncture-proof armor, were sitting across from her, staring right at her. Or at least it seemed like they were staring right at her. She couldn’t see their eyes through the visors. The other one was sitting on the seat to her left. He appeared to be looking straight ahead. Maybe he was watching the movie. No one was talking. The driver was driving.
The van took a left onto Lomax Avenue, and ... OK, now she knew where she was. She was out on the northeast end of Lomax, numbers descending, so heading downtown. She also remembered where she was going, sixty kilometers south-southwest to the 23rd A.S.P. Quarantine Zone ... to live out the remainder of her natural life. She couldn’t remember exactly why she was going to do that, but she knew she was. She remembered signing some digital forms, and the Clears ... yes, that was back in the hospital ... and dreams, but they didn’t feel like dreams, and doctors, and her mother was in there somewhere, and there was something she was supposed to do and ... whatever, that was all in the past. She could sift through the broken pieces later. All that seemed to matter now ... was now ... now ... now ... now ...
Seventy-five kilometers west-northwest, at 3258 Marigold Lane, Kyle would be up and sipping his decaf. She could picture him there at the kitchen table, tie flipped back across his shoulder, scanning his morning Content stream ... sad, yes, but that would pass, with the healing power of time and the One, and by now their psychiatrist, Doctor Graell, would have upped his Zanoflaxithorinal dosage, and prescribed whatever else he needed to help him through this transition experience. In time, and with the love and support of Families of Anti-Social Persons Anonymous, he would process his pain, and eventually forgive her, after which, maybe a year down the road, he’d meet someone else, and life would go on. Could he forgive her? He had to forgive her, or the pain and resentment would tear him apart. She prayed to the One to help Kyle forgive her ... but for what? What had she done, exactly? Something that had gotten her wounded. She could feel the tightness around her scar. She closed her eyes and tried to remember. She was walking down some desolate boulevard, or outdoor mall ... there were stores ... bodies ... or mannequins ... no. She couldn’t remember. She prayed to the One to help her remember. She couldn’t remember. She opened her eyes.
The van slowed down and came to a stop at the intersection of Lomax and Rollins. Valentina found herself staring directly into the street-level entrance of 6262 Lomax Avenue, a two hundred story priapic monument to corporate and architectural excess. No one ever used this entrance. Spotless chromium escalator tubes ran down from the marbled lobby to the Lomax/Rollins WhisperTrain Station, which was served by the Orange, Blue, and Green lines. The exterior doors were mirrored, of course, but she knew, right at that very moment, legions of perfectly normal people, with normal haircuts and normal jobs, were streaming up out of those escalator tubes, the walls of which were running commercials for pharmaceuticals, hair conditioners, Viewers, readers, anti-aging crèmes ... spilling out into the main floor lobby, which looked like the nave of some Gothic cathedral, except that all the mosaics were screens and there weren’t any pews or sanctuary ... swarming off every which way like ants, who thanks to some form of insect radar never seemed to collide with each other ... filing into Pauline & Proust, Lindtner’s, Barnaby’s Bagel Emporium, C.G. Woo’s, and Coco Rico, to purchase their individually shrink-wrapped fat-free ChocoLite black bean muffins, decaf mochas, and soy-milk lattes, smoothies with plastic see-through dome tops, protein drops, IQ boosters, 10-packs of Tim’s “Ye Olde” breathmints ... filing through banks of check-out scanners, body scanners, iris scanners, weapons and explosives detectors, data collectors, counters, sensors ... smiling into the faces of other smiling, talking, walking, swarming, fat-free muffin purchasing people, actual people, who were actually there, but to whom they were not actually talking, talking as they were
to other people who were not actually there, where they were, but were crossing some other luxurious lobby, similarly smiling and walking and talking.
Valentina hiccuped violently, belched, in a squawking chicken-like fashion, and launched into an uncontrollable, inappropriate fit of laughter.
“Are we going to have a problem, Ms. Briggs?” one of the Security Specialists asked her, reaching for his can of mace.
She shook her head, and tried to answer, to tell him they weren’t going to have a problem, but she couldn’t speak, and she could barely breathe, and, worst of all, she could not stop laughing.
Four months earlier, so in officially December 2609, H.C.S.T., a considerably better-dressed Valentina Briggs had entered this very marbled lobby, navigated these legions of people, taken the express to the 200th floor, and was sitting on the end of an S-shaped bank of ergonomic, flesh-tone, faux leather seating in the lobby of Paxton, Wills & Huxley, a Limited Liability Company. Paxton Wills, a leading provider of assisted reproductive services, and a member of the Hadley Medical Group, boasted a nearly perfect success rate on variant-corrected IVF for its healthy Variant-Positive clients. Being a member of Hadley Medical meant they were able to variant-correct their human embryos right there, in-house, eliminating any possible risk of unwanted in-transit embryo incidents. The Fosters, longstanding Paxton Wills clients, were entirely satisfied with the overall service, satisfied with the helpful staff, extremely satisfied with the end results, and would recommend them to friends and relatives. Six months prior, over gluten-free scones, Susan Foster had done just that.
The Paxton Wills lobby was tastefully done in a range of gentle, complimentary earth-tones, the lighting low, warm, and slightly yellow, the temperature exactly 20C. The AmbiMood Systems viewing screens were running a series of time-lapse dissolves of orchids, hibiscus, and red amaryllis, delicate petals shuddering open, against what sounded to Valentina like surf washing up on a white sand beach. The Christmas season was in full swing. A crawler above the reception area was running the latest retail figures. Sales were up. Confidence was high. Now was the time to secure your future. Paxton, Wills & Huxley wished you a peaceful, prosperous holiday season and hoped that the Light of the One Who Was Many would guide you upon your chosen Path(s).
“Valentina Briggs,” the receptionist said.
Valentina glanced up and smiled. The receptionist smiled. They nodded at each other. Another satisfied Paxton Wills client seated across from Valentina, a birdlike woman with bright blue hair, who looked to be about six months pregnant, turned toward Valentina and smiled. Valentina returned the smile. She checked around the lobby quickly. There didn’t appear to be anyone else in her immediate vicinity she needed to smile at, so she quickly saved the histology article she hadn’t even started reading yet, dropped her All-in-One in her purse, and headed up toward the reception desk. Behind the desk, a bank of screens were running loops of smiling, blue-eyed, cooing, variant-corrected infants. She was almost about to smile at the infants, but she caught herself ... they were just on the screen.
Kyle was late, which was inconsiderate. He’d called en route, feeling just awful. Something about an algorithm for some retroactive conversion or something. He thought he had snoozed the reminder on his Viewer, when it turned out he’d actually turned it off. Valentina had forgiven him, of course, but now Kyle would have to forgive himself before he could really let go of his guilt, which, being Kyle, might take a while.
Karen, one of the physicians assistants, who was slightly overweight, and had had some work done, was standing there in the open doorway just to the right of the reception area, smiling warmly at Valentina. “Oh, are you all by yourself today?” she asked, hoping that Kyle was all right and there hadn’t been some kind of horrible accident. Valentina explained about Kyle and the algorithm ... or whatever it was. Karen nodded. She understood. Karen was also Variant-Positive.
As they made their way down the plushly carpeted hallway of the consultation wing, Karen explained that Doctor Fraser was in with another client at the moment, but he would be in to see her just as soon he could, and that all Valentina’s recent tests looked good, and she said that she liked Valentina’s new outfit, and she wondered what Valentina used on her hair, because it always looked so full and silky, and Karen’s hair was always so dry, no matter which conditioner she used. Valentina smiled, thanked her, and told her the name of her hair conditioner, which you couldn’t always find in stores, but which Karen could probably get online, and which Valentina just totally swore by.
By this time, Karen had ushered her into one of the cosy little consultation rooms, where the Muzak was always so tasteful and soothing. She smiled, Karen did, and Valentina smiled, and Karen thanked her, and more smiling ensued, and finally Karen told her that they would show Kyle in just as soon as he arrived. Then she stepped out and closed the door. Valentina had always liked Karen. She liked all the other physicians’ assistants. She liked Doctor Fraser. She liked the receptionists. Everyone at Paxton Wills was so nice.
Kyle, however, was now seriously late, which regardless of whatever algorithm, or whatever it was that had gone kablooey and needed his undivided attention, was inconsiderate, and narcissistic, and was on the verge of becoming a pattern. The simple fact of the matter was, Kyle had chosen to snooze his reminder rather than stop whatever he was doing, or hand it off to one of his interns, and get to Paxton Wills on time. Whatever it was that needed his attention, Valentina also needed his attention. This appointment had been scheduled three weeks in advance. They had talked about it just that morning, about how happy they were to be pregnant again, and how it was going to take this time, and how Valentina just felt that it had, and how thrilled Kyle felt that she felt that way, because he did too, and how he knew, despite whatever struggles she’d been having, that everything was going to be OK, and so much better, once they started their family. And now, here he was, late, and here she was, alone with her feelings, which were definitely veering towards resentment and away from detachment, compassion, and acceptance, which he knew full well was toxic for her, especially given her recent struggles, and her family history, and all the rest of it.
She closed her eyes and said her mantra.
“The loving, compassionate oneness of the …”
The reminder on her All-in-One went off ... wind chimes in a gentle sea breeze. It was time to take her Zanoflaxithorinal. She got her pill bottle out and took one.
Three weeks earlier, the same Valentina, consciously sedated, her feet in stirrups, had watched between her upraised knees as Doctor Fraser carefully inserted his catheter into her cervical canal and advanced it into her uterine cavity. The catheter was loaded with three human embryos, which Doctor Fraser had grown in a dish. Following a standard ten-day course of ovarian follicle stimulating hormones, along with various hormone antagonists, all of which were completely routine, Doctor Fraser had commenced ovulation, transvaginally retrieved sixteen of her eggs, placed them into a culture medium, carefully added some spermatozoa technicians had sperm-washed out of Kyle’s semen, and allowed them to incubate for eighteen hours. After confirming the appearance of pronuclei, certified technicians had transferred the eggs into a special growth solution, and allowed them to culture for another two days. Once they had, Doctor Fraser, himself, had gender-selected and variant-corrected the three most promising XX embryos for manual transfer into Valentina’s uterus. This is what was happening now.
“Better to lie back and relax, Ms. Briggs. You’re going to strain your neck that way.” Karen gripped and gently guided Valentina’s head down onto the table, so that now she was staring straight up at the ceiling, which at the moment was out of focus. Doctor Fraser was between her legs, working his catheter up inside her, trying to get his angle just right. Real-Time footage of her uterine canal, shot by a camera in the tip of the catheter, was running on the screen of an instrument panel, which Valentina could not see.
“Beautiful,” Doctor Fraser said. “Yes. O
K. Here we go now. ”
Doctor Fraser was Valentina’s age, tall, trim, a swimmer probably. He looked like a model in an underwear ad. His hands were warm, firm and gentle, even inside those neoprene gloves. He’d stand there, in his surgical outfit, between her naked, upraised legs, and explain what he was going to do to her, and how it was going to feel, and so on, which Valentina always enjoyed, not on account of what he was saying ... mostly just because she just liked Doctor Fraser.
Being a medical professional herself, Valentina understood the process, as did virtually every other Normal, even if they didn’t quite get all the details or know all the Latinate names of things. It would have been rather odd if they hadn’t. Assisted Reproductive Services, widely available to healthcare consumers for four or five hundred years at least, had, since the advent of variant-correction, become the virtually exclusive means of procreation for Variant-Positive parents throughout the United Territories. How that had happened went something like this ...
The year after Valentina was born, so 2569, 5282, or The Year of the Tapir, depending on the calendar, the team of Geiger, Chao, and Fournier, working on a grant from Pfizer-Lockheed, finally established a definitive link between sub-normal variants of the MAO-A gene and Anti-Social behavior in humans. The MAO-A (or “Warrior”) gene had long been suspected as the primary locus of one or more genetic defects predisposing the human species to a host of Anti-Social disorders ... Oppositional Defiance Disorder, Anti-Social Personality Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Negativistic Personality Disorder, Paranoid/Schizoid Personality Disorder, Conduct Disorder, Hyperactivity, the list went on and on, and on. According to the leading medical experts, generation after generation had suffered the effects of these various disorders. The history of the human race read like an in-depth pathology report. From its outbreak during the Early Bronze Age to its critical stage in the Age of Anarchy, the epidemic of Anti-Sociality had ravaged and emotionally crippled humanity, destroying entire civilizations, squandering irreplaceable resources, poisoning the seas, the land, and the air, wiping out countless species of animals, tearing apart societies, families, driving men and women alike to steal, murder, rape, and torture, to senseless acts of political terror, civil unrest, malicious assembly, and other deviant and destructive behaviors ... but now, finally, the link had been made, and finding a cure was just a matter of time.
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